


Hyperpyrexia

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Chapter 3 Spoilers, M/M, Moderately graphic descriptions of violence, Post Blessed are the Peacemakers, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: Charles watches over a fevered Arthur after he escapes from the O’Driscolls.





	Hyperpyrexia

He’s been sick like this before. When Arthur grows feverish, he dreams with his eyes open, sees and hears things that aren’t there. Hosea sat with him once all night when he was near death’s door, scarcely seventeen and in hiding from the largest manhunt the three of them had yet seen.

It was Russian flu, maybe, they never were quite sure. He wasn’t coherent for the majority of it, thrashing and sweating and stinking and rotting, like fruit on the vine, peeling back as he scalded from the inside out. He does remember a man smearing something thick and cool against his forehead, a grainy paste swept across his brow bone. Smoke clinging to his lungs with every inhale, pouring from his mouth to drift up and out through the cut out into the night sky. Wolves plagued his dreams, stalking outside the tent he slept in, howling in the night. They nipped at his heels until the fever broke in the morning, his hand clasped sweaty and warm in Hosea’s.

Colm beats him with the butt of his revolver, until pain blossoms stark in his side, blooms up and swallows him whole. Arthur hears the wolves again, this time, though all he sees is red, and hears the blood crashing in waves against his temples. He operates on instinct, scrambling and feral from the burrow the O’Driscolls had shoved him into. They had never meant for him to see the light of day again. He emerges from that dank crawl space, having strangled one man to the ground, wrung his neck out like the wash until blood bubbled up from his lips; blessed are the peacemakers, but martyrs die, and Arthur is no saint, strung up in a true crucifixion or not. That’s not the way he’ll go.

It’s night and the air is cool and damp this close to the water, on this ramshackle homestead. The lamps hanging from the posts look far away as he stumbles forward.

He kills all the men who beat him. He strangles his second, just like the first he had left in the hole. The third he follows behind, reaches around and snaps his neck, lets his body fall to the soft grass under his bare feet. He can hear them yowling in the distance, the wolves closing in as he stumbles towards a lit shack wall. The trunk has his things, his guns he tosses over his shoulder, the satchel holding his journal to his hip. He throws knives between the eyes of the others, removing them from their skulls with a sickening suction clinging to the blade, his shoulder screaming in protest under the thrum of adrenaline.

“Arthur.”

He sputters as water touches his lips, coughing as he comes to; something escapes him, blood or phlegm or bile, Arthur doesn’t know, but the cup is removed.

“It’s alright.” Charles voice is even and soothing as he takes the wet cloth draped across Arthur’s forehead, and dabs at his mouth. He leans down to dunk the cloth into a nearby bucket, wringing tightly, the water pouring in rivulets from his clenched fists. That’s the only thing Arthur can seem to fixate on, Charles’ hands, with his thick fingers carefully folding the ragonce, twice. He pushes the sweat-slick strands of hair near Arthur’s face away, drapes the rag over Arthur’s forehead once more.

It’s cool water— lake water. Clemens lake. A dull reminder of time, place.

Grimshaw had been there, by his side, earlier. But now Grimshaw isn’t here, not any longer; time must have passed, though it’s still night, so maybe nothing has changed at all. He could have slept for hours, or days. Charles face is thrown in shadows, making his frown look much more stark than it must really be. From this angle, looking up, there’s something close to distress touching his brows, creasing the corners of his lips.

There’s a wetness to the corner of his mouth, and Charles swipes it up with his thumb.

Arthur’s cracked lips move, but no sound comes out.

“I was scared, Arthur.” Charles says it simply. He does not whisper it, he does not murmur the words as they usually are, ashamed and hushed. Flowers curl around Charles head, the vines weaving themselves through the strands of his braid, attracting lightning bugs. Arthur reaches out for them, but his arm doesn’t move.

He helps Arthur into a halfway sitting position, especially careful not to jostle his shoulder; Charles has big hands, thick fingers that splay against his body, seep heat through his drenched long johns. The words jumble in his head. Arthur’s always scared, but he doesn’t say it in those words; he fears for the gang, and he fears for Dutch. For Mary Linton and her degenerate father and Hosea and his persistent cough. He fears for little Jack, and Abigail, and sometimes John, too, in a way that scares him so bad it curdles to anger in his gut.

Arthur’s chest rattles as he breathes in, coughs out. The second time Charles brings the cup to his mouth, he drinks, his good arm raising weakly, his hand pantomiming support.

Arthur doesn’t fear for Charles; he’s a good man, better than him, though that’s not nothing to brag about, considering all he’s ever done. Charles places the glass aside, and when he moves back, to sit on the edge of his cot, Arthur takes his hand in his, twines their fingers together the way vines do. His grip is weak, but Charles holds him firm, roots him to the spot.

When he sleeps, he dreams of a stag. Beautiful, proud; hunted down.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @hello-imasalesman
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
